Angels Become Demons
by Banerik
Summary: A lone Imperial Guardsman mans his post in the trenches.
1. Chapter 1

He could feel the ground shift beneath his feet as he peered over the wall of the trench. He didn't look down. No-man's land was a haze of smog and dust, twisted metal heaps and razor-sharp wire peering back at him through the thick air. He adjusted his position in the trench, feet uncomfortable and wet. The spaces between his toes burned with some infection, but still he didn't look down. Every time he stopped and considered the reality of where he was, every time he looked down over the brass buttons on his greatcoat and the dirtied straps of cloth on his boots into the sodden earth of this little world, his trench, he remembered. He remembered his comrades, his home. He remembered humanity and compassion. Heavy bolter fire rang out from the enemy earthworks not a hundred yards away, flinging muck into the air around him. He ducked his head down, now face to face with that floor of the trench. Bodies. A macabre carpet of prone figures lined the trench, nameless corpses that served the Emperor in life as soldiers and now in death as grisly floorboards. Most were submerged almost completely in the mud, buried in the detritus, but some, the fresh additions, still possessed features that were distinct and identifiable. The men he stood on now were people who a few short days before had stood alongside him. Now he manned this stretch of line alone.

He reported to his lieutenant every day at midday. Without a full complement of troops defense was impossible. His lieutenant, the eternal kind of officer that was present on every battlefield, old, grizzled, eyes of steel and balls of brass, knew it, had always known it. But orders were orders, and the will of the Imperium would not be denied because of a simple thing like impossibility.

He heard the high pitched whine of artillery shells screaming out of the sky like angels become demons, indignant and protesting their fall. He huddled further into the side of the trench, pushing himself into a small hole in the side of the bulwark that served as his sleeping cubby. The impact of heavy mortars rattled his brain inside his skull and his skull inside his helmet. The explosions tossed earth into the air as if it were cotton floating in the wind. He stared at the corpses, some now pulped by the artillery fire into masses that were men, and thought again of home.

He had been raised on an Agri-World, high tithe. His father owned a small plantation where fibrous plants like flax and cotton were raised and then shipped to a manufactorium and integrated into polymers. The materials that made up the greatcoat draped around his shoulders could have come from fields his father labored over if it hadn't all been destroyed in the civil war. Ten years of hard fighting. Millions dead. First his brother went off to fight out of devotion to the Emperor. Dead. Then his father went, as some sort of revenge for his son. Dead. Then he went, and survived the last two years of the conflict. That proved to be a step-up for him when it came to further service; no regiments could be raised from such a wasteland, so he was integrated into a new regiment from another planet, another system. No experience in the fresh troops, troops that now lay in front of him. Not much of home in that life. Not much of home back home, though.

The shells pounded on.


	2. Chapter 2

The rain pinged like bombshells on his helmet, the cruel staccato of bolter fire joining in for a stuttering symphony of death. Water seeped down the back of his neck as he leaned to grasp the small cup of stimulant drink from the box of munitions on which it rested. New bolter rounds for shooting, new spades for digging, new grenades for throwing, but no new men for killing. He took a sip of the sludge in the mug, cold and bitter in his mouth. Steam rose from his breath as he stood, silent, watching the forest of tank traps and barbed wire beyond. He finished his breakfast but kept the cup in his hand, letting it fill with the rain. He took a swig, swishing the putrid liquid in his mouth, searing his teeth with the acids and pollutants in the water. He spat, and took a drink from his canteen, then poured the rest of the water in. It would be clean by evening, the kinetic filter system scrubbing the water with his movements.

Tendrils of smoke wormed their way through the defenses like the tentacles of some colossal beast reaching up from the depths of the ocean. The stink of its breath assailed his nose, but his movements were sure and swift, removing his helmet with one hand and pulling his mask over his head with the other. He pulled his coat closer to his skin and placed his helmet back on his head. The poison mist stuck close to the ground, seeping over the edge of the escarpment and into the trench. It billowed about his legs, snaking, clutching, ready to pull him under. Still he stood, lasgun slung over his shoulder, eyes, hidden by cloth and glass, looking out to the unknown.

He thought of the last warm shower he had. Steam in clouds all around him, embracing his body in warmth. That was on a different world, in a different time. His regiment had been tasked with eliminating an enclave of cultists which had holed up inside the capital city. The weak-willed heretics held their trenches for mere weeks, and in reward for their swift capture of the city the soldiers were allowed to rest a day before destroying it. There had been a small house, in a park inside the city, abandoned. Clean, with hot water, and soft linens. His patrol could have been executed for the unauthorised stop, but no one said a word, and the cultists were long dead. They took turns in the shower, washing the grime, the blood, the war from their skin and hair. After his turn, he looked around the bedroom where he dressed. Picture frames showed smiling faces and happy lives.

The next day he burned the house to the ground. As the flames reached higher, he released his hold on the trigger of the flamethrower and watched until the house collapsed, the flakes of burnt wood and paper floating into the sky like butterflies. Before the regiment left at the end of the day he managed to go back to the house, the ashes still hot, the embers still glowing. He found one of the frames, half of the picture charred and blackened by the fire, the other sheltered by the glass. It was a picture of a young girl, twelve or thirteen at the most. She reminded him of his sister. He took the picture and stuffed it into one of the pockets on his coat. He would look at it when he had a moment to reflect, and thought of her family, his family, until he finally lost it to the mud.

The toxic miasma that buffeted his legs and burned his skin lingered for days. He had seen men die from those poisons, scratching out their own eyes and shrieking in pain as boils burst all over their skin until a merciful soldier silenced them with death. The daily bombardments increased in frequency as well, the trench itself worn down by the attack. Now he rebuilt what he could with the tools at his disposal.

He reported to his officer only to find a different man in charge. The old officer had died that morning after accidentally shooting himself in the leg. He told this new lieutenant about the increase in artillery barrages, but the youth seemed more concerned with the lack of pomp displayed in his report. He turned around and walked back to his trench as he always did, the backs of the dead beneath his feet familiar with the passage of time. He tried to count the number of bodies once but lost his way just over three hundred. When he arrived he crawled into his cubby and attempted to fortify it using the construction materials his former squad had been supplied with. The recent increase in volume of explosive materiel had left his home in danger of collapse. A shrill cry from above indicated another light show was about to begin. He huddled back as the bombs fell. Routine.

Then the shells stopped short. He heard a whistle blow from across no-man's land, and scrambled to grab his lasgun, his routine broken. Heavy bolter fire immediately erupted from both sides as gunners were presented with targets to aim at. Men were cut down in bloody swathes as they raced across the field of obstructions between their home and their goal. He aimed, firing his lasgun at the racing figures and then stopped, fixing his bayonet while they charged on. Only a few would make it, he knew, past the bolters, and he tried to find out who. One man, dressed in the same uniform as the rest, gas-masked and dodging left and right, was obviously a veteran of the trenches. He aimed once more and fired, striking the man in the chest and throwing him to the ground. He thought of his brother, fiery spirited, likely the most nimble on the field. He aimed at another combatant, evading the heavy gunners' fire, hiding behind cover. He fired again, and thought of his father, cautious, careful.

A man leapt into his trench and clubbed him with the butt of his rifle. Stunned, he fell back, dropping his lasgun, but quickly surged forward before his enemy could fire, grabbing the closest weapon to him; his spade. They struggled for a moment over the rifle until he could bring his weapon to bear. The one-handed shovel made a sick crack as in cut into the man's neck and collarbone. The impact shook up his arm and spattered his mask with blood. The man fell to the ground, blood pouring from the wound, writhing, soon another corpse among a multitude. He fell back against the side of the trench, his heart racing, his shoulder aching where he had been hit and his elbow aching with the force of his blow.

The bolter fire became sporadic once more, the enemy advance halted. For now.


	3. Chapter 3

His officer was a fool.

Upon reporting at midday his officer had informed him that an attack would commence that evening in response to the enemy assault the evening previous. He had been dumbstruck at the stupidity of the order, the sheer magnitude of the gap between what high command desired and the reality of the situation. There would be no attack; no real offense could be mounted with manpower what it was. Instead some sham of an attack would occur, the few men who actually still existed in the trenches either quickly retreating or not even leaving the trench at all.

After relaying this information to his officer he was assigned one of the few commissars left alive to ensure his squads' dedication to the evening's coming debacle. On paper he reported for two squads of the platoon. In reality he reported for himself. What the commissar would think of the arrangement he had no idea.

The commissar was younger than the officer. Fresh from the progenium, with an air of confidence and zeal uncommon to the men of the regular infantry. The man possessed all the qualities commissars usually possess: hawkish features, strong jaw and chin, furrowed and masculine brow. The only thing unusual about him was his inexperience, and the fact that he was still alive. Many soldiers in trench conflicts, if inexperienced, were wont to shoot commissars due to the politcial officers' abrasive nature. He had seen it happen himself; the commissar had called for an assault on the enemy lines, threatening the soldiers he was stationed with unless they did not comply. He managed to climb partway up the ladder to begin the attack before three men shot him until he was unrecognizable, stripped his clothing, and buried him in the mud.

They walked together back to his post. His feet burned white-hot with his infection and he resisted the urge to stomp and kick in order to facilitate the rubbing of his toes together. He looked over at the commissar's boots, clean, new, with waterproof lining. They were nice boots.

"What size shoe are you?" he said. The commissar seemed shocked to hear him speak and gave him a quizzical look. Then his demeanor returned to the steely gaze that he had been taught to project.

"Address me as sir, soldier. And my shoe size is irrelevant." He remained in silence the rest of the journey.

When they arrived, he headed toward his usual space, directly in front of his cubby. The commissar peered about, searching for other Guardsmen in the vicinity that might constitute a squad. He finally stopped, perturbed by the lack of living men. "Soldier, where is your unit?" A waving hand gestured toward the floor. The commissar frowned. "Soldier, what is your name?"

He thought a moment, the promethium fumes in the air stinging his nostrils and brain like so many pins and needles. It had been weeks since someone had asked for his name. He glanced down at his greatcoat, smeared with mud and the blood of the men lying around him. He had a nameplate somewhere, he knew, but he didn't know where. He looked to his feet at the corpse beneath him, his neighbor for so long. "Soldier, answer me." The commissar growled, impatient with the delay. He bent down and flipped the man over, the filth of the trench sucking at the man's face as it was uncovered. Rot rendered the face inhuman, cheeks agape with holes. He found the man's name pin, unclipped it, and stood up, wiping the mud from its surface, his back to the commissar all the while. "Soldier, face me!" The commissar unholstered his bolt pistol, half in anger, half in fear.

"Kilroy. My name is Kilroy. Sir." He clipped the pin to his lapel, and turned to face the commissar. Bolt pistol raised, the commissar's eyes were ablaze with suspicion.

"I will ask you once more, and I will brook no tomfoolery. Answer me; where are your men?"

"My men are dead, sir. Just like we will be, very soon." Kilroy turned his back to the commissar once more. "What is your name, sir?" The commissar lowered his weapon, shaken by the exchange, his greenness showing.

"Commissar Bertram Farallon. I suppose we shall be seeing much of each other over the next few days. I expect the, uh, finest courage from you, Kilroy. Emperor knows this offense will need it."

"What size shoe are you, sir?"


	4. Chapter 4

The high keening of falling bombs and the thuds of explosions preempted the assault. Sweat trickled down Kilroy's face, carrying grime and dust along with it. He cradled his lasgun in his hands and glanced behind him at the commissar. Farallon looked more nervous than himself, visibly shaking. Kilroy expected this was his first real trench combat situation; even though Kilroy had taken part in hundreds of attacks across no-man's land, his heart pumped fear-filled adrenaline throughout his body and filled his nose with the rusty smell of blood. He almost pitied the commissar his inexperience, but reminded himself that this was the man forcing him to get out of his comfortable trench in the first place and leave all his friends behind. He looked down at those friends, quiet, sleeping. He smiled, happy, thinking of all the memories they had together, but sad because he was leaving them. He knew he'd make new friends, though. He always did.

He turned to the commissar, whispering so as not to disturb his slumbering compatriots. "We're going to have to be quick and quiet. Attracting attention will be a sure way to die. Third platoon recieved full reinforcement this morning so some fire will be distracted to our right. Stay low, and stay behind me. Sir." Farallon eagerly nodded, his face pale. Kilroy's eyes narrowed. "And sir, if you do something stupid, you're on your own." The commissar swallowed around the lump in his throat. Abruptly, the friendly bombardment ceased.

Kilroy hauled himself out of the trench as whistles blew from other parts of the line, the commissar fumbling behind him. He darted forward, bending low and dodging between the strips of razorwire and the other wreckage on the field. The reek of decaying flesh hit him in the face; where the bodies in the trenches gave off the cloying stench of old, slow rot, this was the smell of rancid meat, sour and pungent. Chunks of that meat hung from the razorwire. He could imagine, could remember men rushing forward in their desparate attempt to reach the other side only to become snared in the wire and cut to shreds by enemy fire. He had even seen monofilament wire once on a Forgeworld. The man who had passed through it continued to run until he collapsed, legless, a few paces on, small beads of blood left behind on the wire the only indication something was there. He stopped in a small crater surrounded by the remains of an old centaur armored vehicle as bolter rounds raked across his assault path. He was surprised to see the commissar slide into the crater behind him, alive and physically undamaged. "Ready for more?" Kilroy blithely asked, and rushed back out of the crater as fire was redirected back toward the advancing allied forces on the right.

He was almost halfway when he hit the landmine. His whole body went numb as he felt himself lifted off his feet. Sounds jumped out of his range of hearing, ringing in his ears, and the world slowed down, the streaks of bolter rounds smeared across his vision with contrails of red fire. He felt a great pressure on his chest, like a gauntleted fist boring down into his heart and lungs, seeking to crush whatever lay beneath it. Impact.

He hit the ground and slid into a ditch, tumbling and coming to a rest on his back. He turned his head groggily at the shape of Commissar Farallon's blanched face examining his legs. His leg. Feeling returned to the rest of his body, but not to his right leg. He looked down and saw five pink toes with four rotten webbings between them. He also saw shards of shrapnel embedded in his calf. Lucky. He began to regain his senses, and his leg throbbed with pain, the metal slivers digging into his nerves with every convulsion. Not so lucky. Instinct taking over, he groped with his hands for his lasgun and found both pieces it had been broken into. Farallon was frantically wringing his hands. "Kilroy, what should I do? Tell me what to do! We have to keep going; no, we have to go back. Kilroy, please!"

Kilroy grunted in pain, his words strained. "Take my pack. Inside there are bandages and a knife. Use the knife. We stay here for the night." With that, he lost consciousness, head slipping into the mud. Farallon froze, alone, for the moment. Then he remembered how much he would loathe being alone, and worked the pack off of Kilroy's back. Explosions from small munitions and bolter fire still filled the air with the sound of war, but he concentrated on the task at hand, remembering his first-aid training at the progenium. He grabbed the knife, hesitating. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and shoved the knife in between the shrapnel and Kilroy's muscle, pulling at the metal with his other hand. The twisted scrap came out of his leg and blood came with it, but the commissar was quick to spray the synthetic bandage onto the wound.

When all that he could do was done, the bolter fire had ceased. It was clear that the attack had failed, just as Kilroy had said it would. Farallon sat back, exhausted, and sighed. "This was supposed to be my cadet training, with a whole squad of troopers at my back. All I have is him now, unconscious, stranded in the middle of no-man's land, with night fast approaching, with a bolt pistol, a knife, and some shovels. This is going to be one hell of a cadet exercise."

Night fell swiftly, like a shroud on the faces of the newly dead. Flares burst overhead like sickly, pale fireworks, and Kilroy pulled his eyelids apart from each other, the collection of filth on his body making the process difficult. He turned his head and looked around. There sat Farallon, the flares lighting his gaunt visage as the moon illumines the face of a man long drowned: weakly, and without intent. Kilroy stirred, raising an arm to block his eyes as another star exploded overhead, the streams of fire raining from the sky. The commissar turned to him, and the shadow playing about his brow lifted, Farallon sliding over next to the wounded soldier.

"Kilroy, you're awake! How are you feeling?" he asked, concern in his voice. Concern from a commissar? Perhaps humanity was not extinct yet, Kilroy mused.

"I feel alright. I'd feel better in a trench. We need to move as soon as we can; we're corpses at sunrise if we don't get fortified." Farallon nodded in agreement, but looked at Kilroy's leg with doubt.

"What of your leg? Your injury debilitates you and makes traversing no-man's land impossible."

Kilroy frowned. "I'll let you know what's impossible here, commissar." Pushing back on the ground and with some assistance from Farallon, he managed to raise himself into a low crouch. He winced in pain as mud squished between his toes. He could feel the burning of the infection, yes, but also of the very ground he stood on, polluted and destroyed. The gritty earth was poisoning him. "Tell me if you see some boots. I could use a new pair."

Farallon permitted himself a small grin at the statement. "See us through this, and I'll give you mine." Kilroy raised his eyebrow at the political officer, then smirked back.

"Let's move. I'll take the lead; even with my injury I stand the best chance of spotting possible obstacles." Farallon nodded his assent. Both men moved forward slowly so as not to attract the attention of any lookouts. They darted from cover to cover when the flares lit up the sky, and stuck low to the ground the whole way. Where before Farallon's uniform had been spotless and neatly pressed, now it was almost indistinguishable from the filth wrapped around Kilroy's figure. It took over three hours to finally reach the other side of no man's land, Kilroy slowed by his leg, Farallon by his inexperience. They slid over the side of the trench and onto a pile of corpses. Evidently the situation for the Enemy was similar to their own.

The trench was a ghost land. Farallon stooped to examine one of the dead, and reluctantly pulled his boots from his feet. They were a good fit for Kilroy, who was glad for the chance to remove his feet from the environment around them. He was fairly certain his pinky toe had fused to his ring toe somewhere over the course of their journey to the trench, leaving behind an odd, brown nub.

Kilroy looked around for a weapon among the bodies, and found instead a crutch. A genuine wooden crutch, complete with brass fittings and a cushioned auxiliary support, somewhat decayed by the fatigue of trench life. He wondered how the crutch had come to be there; the idea that such a thing could be found in that wasteland dumbfounded him. He also found a small autopistol almost empty of ammunition. At least he would be able to kill himself.

They crouched together in a small cubby, much like Kilroy's own, and lay down to sleep. But Kilroy never really slept, never really escaped the nightmare he lived and breathed every day. It followed him into his dreams. Farallon slept like an innocent child.


End file.
